


Holiday Spirits

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Christmas Eve, Confessions, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Rough Kissing, Size Kink, Strength Kink, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-06 23:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8773498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "It is certainly Shizuo’s apartment, tidy and neat and marked with all the evidence of his previous presence here, and very completely empty of anyone except for Izaya." Izaya makes a Christmas visit and finds Shizuo's holiday cheer more accepting than he expected.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tsundereslasher](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tsundereslasher).



Shizuo’s apartment is dark when Izaya arrives.

This is more of a surprise than it should be. Shizuo’s not expecting the other as a visitor, after all, reasonably Izaya supposes there’s no particular reason his archnemesis should be waiting patiently at home for Izaya himself to arrive; but Izaya had expected him to be there, had assumed that if he has nothing better to do on Christmas Eve that Heiwajima Shizuo is unlikely to have anything so mundane as a date to attend. Izaya’s so convinced of this fact that even the darkened windows he can see facing the street aren’t enough to entirely distract him from his original plan; far better that he check inside too, just to make sure, in case Shizuo is sulking alone in the dark of his apartment and in need of some well-timed teasing to bring him back to his usual growling self. Izaya makes his way around to the back of the apartment building, past a row of dark windows punctuated with the occasional golden glow of a family dinner or a romantic night in, but he doesn’t bother to even glance at the scenes of domestic bliss framed so perfectly by the weight of the windows around them. There’s nothing particularly interesting about happiness, or even the illusion of it offered by holiday gatherings; Izaya’s sure there are dark enough secrets under the surface of those smiles, but he’s unlikely to gain access to that information today, when everyone’s mask is firmly fixed to the pretense of holiday cheer. So he walks past the bright-lit windows without slowing, with the dark of the night to guard him from the light-blind vision of those inside the happy homes, and he climbs the stairs at the back of the complex to make his way to Shizuo’s door.

It’s dark here, too. It’s a small apartment; there can’t be any lights on inside or some of the illumination would be spilling free of the windows, even with the blinds lowered and curtains drawn. That still doesn’t rule out the possibility of Shizuo being at home, though, not entirely, and besides Izaya is hardly going to come all this way only to give up now. He considers the lock on the front door -- it’s a fragile thing, he’s sure he could work it open given the effort of a few minutes -- before turning aside to look for an even simpler method of entry. There are no flowerpots or doormats out front, nothing that could hold the spare key Izaya is looking for, but that means there’s only one other place it could be, and that well within reach. He touches his fingers to the top edge of the doorframe, wondering vaguely if Shizuo has to duck to pass through the entrance as he feels along the lip until his fingers touch cool metal. The key is stuck in place -- Izaya thinks it might be wedged into the wood along the door frame by a careless push of too-strong fingers -- but he works at it until it comes free and he can slide it off the frame and into his hand.

“Monster,” he mutters to himself as he fits the key in the lock and opens the deadbolt without making any real attempt at quiet. “Can’t you be normal about _anything_ , Shizu-chan?” There’s no response, and Izaya wasn’t expecting one; he pushes the door open as reply instead, sliding the key into his pocket as he lets the weight of the door swing shut behind him.

The apartment is as silent inside as it appeared to be outside. All Izaya can see of it is the front room and a few feet of the kitchen space, but the still air is enough to speak to the occupant’s absence even without the missing shoes and empty hook for a jacket by the front door. Izaya turns the lock behind him again, the movement idle and unthinking as he toes his shoes off in the entryway before stepping forward to pad ghost-silent into the rest of the space.

It’s cleaner than he expected. Izaya was anticipating clothes scattered across every available surface, maybe dishes left abandoned on the edge of the table rather than put away where they belong; but the kitchen is perfectly tidy, with just a handful of dishes left to dry alongside the sink. There’s only a few of them -- a single set, adequate for one person but not for two -- and they’re still damp when Izaya touches a finger against the side of a cup, as if they were washed and set aside just before Shizuo left for the evening. The bedroom is tidy too; there are no clothes visible in the brief glance Izaya gives it, and the bed is neatly made instead of rumpled into a mess. Izaya wouldn’t have guessed this was Shizuo’s home if he hadn’t known already; as it is he checks the address twice, feeling vaguely that he must have made a mistake. But the dishes are metal, when he considers them again, offering a little more support than the fragility of ceramic against a too-strong grip, and when Izaya eases the dresser drawer open the interior is filled with neatly stacked uniforms enough to guarantee the identity of the occupant. It is certainly Shizuo’s apartment, tidy and neat and marked with all the evidence of his long-term presence here, and very completely empty of anyone except for Izaya.

Izaya considers his options. He has the advantage of surprise at the moment; Shizuo has no idea Izaya’s in his home and no reason to expect a visitor upon his eventual return. Izaya could make a mess of the neat space, could leave his mark in destruction and chaos; but that seems childish, mundane in a way that strikes him as boring before he’s even made the attempt at it. He could just leave, taking the spare key with him to get copies made and hand them out at random to strangers on the street; that idea is more appealing, but it still lacks the instant gratification of an interaction tonight. He could always call Shizuo directly, could laugh some taunting comment about how nice Shizuo’s home seems without Shizuo in it to draw the other into a blind rage that will pull him back here as surely as a magnet draws iron; but he leaves his phone untouched in his pocket as he paces out the short distance across the length of the other’s apartment.

There’s hardly anything to see, and nothing that should offer any interest; but Izaya keeps looking anyway, as if the neat lines of the bedsheets or the careful array of dishes left to dry will somehow change while his back is turned. He opens the dresser drawers one after another, squinting through the dark at the contents without turning on the light that will give away the presence of someone else in Shizuo’s home; he touches his fingers to the smooth of the sheets, surprised by how soft they are under his touch. The fridge is as tidy as the rest of the house, mostly occupied with various sauces along the inside of the door and a few eggs left in a nearly-empty carton; there’s a neat line of milk bottles, too, enough to make Izaya huff a laugh as he reaches to push against one of the convenience store meals stacked on the bottom shelf. The pantry is as clean, with a reasonable but not impressive array of options; finally Izaya gives up on his wandering, and settles down at the table to gaze idly at the bookshelf in the corner of the room. He wouldn’t have expected Shizuo to be much of a reader, and the few titles seem to bear this out; but in the end he supposes reading is a better or at least a cheaper hobby than video games or television shows, where a flare of temper can result in far more expensive destruction than tearing through a cheap paperback. Izaya settles his arms across the top of the table and leans forward to rest his head against them; it makes for a fairly comfortable pillow, he thinks as his gaze wanders idly over the spines of Shizuo’s minimal collection of books. There’s manga along the bottom shelf, a few mismatched volumes from unrelated genres; Izaya wonders where they came from, if they were gifts or if Shizuo particularly liked some detail amidst the black-and-white pages that induced him to purchase the individual volumes. The titles are more entertaining to read, too; the font is colorful, he can tell even in the dark, often framed into art as much as Izaya is sure the covers are. He traces over the words with his gaze, focusing on the sweep and dip of the typeface as he skims from one to another, and he doesn’t notice that his eyes are getting heavy, doesn’t realize his shoulders are hunching farther forward over the table to tip him towards sleep. His eyes shut, his blink lingers long; and then he shuts his eyes again, and forgets to open them, and slips sideways and into sleep.

“ _Izaya-kun_?”

Izaya jerks to consciousness with a jolt, his whole body straining on panicked adrenaline. For the first moment he can’t figure out where he is, can’t find any continuity to the separate pieces of his awareness -- his limbs move without his intention, his eyes blink in a desperate attempt to ground himself -- and then he realizes he’s sitting over a table, and blinking up into the glare from an overhead light, and that Shizuo is glaring down at him from the doorway.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya manages, the words dragging rough in the back of his throat as he tries to struggle his way back to consciousness as rapidly as his sleep-hazy state will allow. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“This is my _home_ ,” Shizuo snaps, still scowling as if he’s only postponing Izaya’s execution because he hasn’t yet decided on a murder weapon. “What are you _doing_ here?”

Izaya waves a hand through the air, ducking his head to cover his expression behind the shadow of his hair while he struggles to regain his bearings on the present moment. “Part of my usual Christmas rounds, Shizu-chan,” he says in something he hopes approaches a sufficiently off-hand lilt. He shifts his legs under the table, trying to make the movement as inconspicuous as possible, and grimaces at the tingling pain that jolts up his knee to his hip. He might be able to stand before the feeling comes back to his numb leg, but any kind of true running is entirely out of the question. “I dropped by all my other friends’ places to wish them a merry Christmas, and while I was in the area I thought I’d stop by.”

“You don’t have any other friends,” Shizuo tells him, so bluntly Izaya can’t quite hold back his flinch as the attack hits true. “And we’re _not_ friends. How did you even get in here?”

Izaya tosses his head, adopting the best range of pretension he can manage under the circumstances. “I’m hardly about to give away information for free, Shizu-chan, I’d be undermining my own livelihood if I did that.” Shizuo is still staring at him, his attention still fixed on Izaya from across the room, but his gaze is shifting, some part of the tension in his expression is easing very slightly. His forehead creases, his mouth twitches; it looks like he’s fighting back a laugh from spilling past his lips. Izaya can feel his jaw set, can feel his fingers curl into fists against the table. “What’s so funny?”

“You--” Shizuo starts, and then pauses to cough roughly to clear his throat. “Your face is…” He lifts a hand to touch against his own cheek as his mouth twists harder. “From your sleeve.”

“What?” Izaya lifts his fingers in involuntary echo of Shizuo’s motion as he looks down at his arm still across the table, at the seam of his sleeve turned face up to match the pressed-in indentation he can feel against his fingertips. He can feel his whole face burn to sudden crimson, can feel the unfamiliar heat of embarrassment crest across his cheekbones and flame over his features; he ducks his head at once, reflexively attempting to hide the glow of his skin in the shadow of his hair, but he’s sure it’s all too evident in spite of any attempts he might make to cover it.

“It’s an ordinary thing,” he attempts, while he’s occupied in rubbing so hard against his cheek the friction is likely to leave more of a mark than the seam of his sleeve did. “What, is this another one of those human things you’ve never experienced?”

“No, I have,” Shizuo says. His voice is suspiciously tight; Izaya doesn’t dare lift his head to see how the other is looking at him. There’s a rustle of sound, the crinkle of a winter coat pulling against itself; Izaya doesn’t lift his head, just keeps his chin ducked through the sound of Shizuo pulling his coat off. “I haven’t ever seen _you_ affected by it, though.” A scuff against tile, shoes sliding to the side, and then footsteps, and self-preservation wins out over embarrassment to lift Izaya’s head so he can gauge Shizuo’s approach. His shoulders are tense, his arm is coming up in instinctive attempt to form a block for his face; but Shizuo isn’t coming towards him. He’s moving towards the counter instead, turning as he sets a plastic bag down against the surface. He looks strange, somehow, there’s something not-quite-right about his appearance that Izaya can’t put his finger on; but his back is turned, at least, and Izaya feels a shudder of shock run through him at this patent display of vulnerability.

“You’re remarkably calm about this, Shizu-chan,” he says, speaking loud to cover up the sound of him sliding his hand off the table and down to his pocket, where the weight of his switchblade is pulling the fabric close against his hip. “I would think you’d be a little more concerned knowing that your archenemy can waltz into your home whenever he pleases. Who knows what I might do while you’re sleeping?”

“You know,” Shizuo says thoughtfully as he pulls a bottle out of the plastic bag to set it heavily on the counter. “You’re a lot less intimidating asleep in my living room.”

Izaya’s face burns with a fresh surge of heat. “ _What_ ,” he splutters. “I--just because you let your guard down doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you, you know.”

“Do you want to go outside?” Shizuo asks, turning away from the counter to fix Izaya with a flat stare. “We can have a fight, if you want a fight.”

Izaya blinks. Shizuo doesn’t sound particularly heated about the idea; he looks more tolerant than anything else, as if he’s offering to humor a child’s petulant demand instead of straining at the leash of his own short temper. Izaya’s fingers in his pocket close tight around his switchblade, the pressure at his knuckles taking some of the frustration from his spine. “Don’t let me force you into it, Shizu-chan, if you don’t feel like attempted murder tonight I would hate to spoil your holiday.”

“I don’t,” Shizuo says, and turns away before Izaya has yet blinked the flicker of surprising hurt from his expression. “I told Kasuka I would try to fight less this year.” There’s the sound of a seal giving way, a cork popping free of a bottle; Shizuo reaches up towards one of the cabinets in front of him, drawing the door open enough to reach for a glass inside. “I mean, if you’re causing trouble in the city, I’m not going to let you get away with it.” There’s the _clink_ of glass against metal, the sound of liquid splashing into a cup. “But I don’t want to break my promise in the first hour after I make it.” Shizuo turns back around, this time with a cup of what the open bottle behind him says is sake in his hand. “You’re not really _doing_ anything, anyway, other than sleeping on my kitchen table.”

“Oh good,” Izaya scoffs. “If you’re that unconcerned about me having free access to your home I’ll have to come by more often to catch you off-guard.” It’s not a very good comeback -- he’s still hot with self-consciousness, and he’s pretty sure the mark from his sleeve is still printed across his face -- and he’s struggling to find something better when his attention drops from Shizuo’s face to his chest, and specifically to the fabric _covering_ his chest.

“Dear _god_ ,” he says without needing any effort to achieve the tone of dawning horror that resonates on his words. “What the _hell_ are you _wearing_?”

“Huh?” Shizuo looks down, as if he’s only just noticed that he’s wearing a soft knit pattern of red and white instead of his usual ridiculously inappropriate bartender uniform. “A sweater?”

“ _What_ ,” Izaya says, because it’s the only thing he can think of to say. “ _Why_.”

Shizuo looks back up to him, his forehead creasing on what looks a very little bit like concern. “It’s cold outside.” He’s frowning again but it looks more worried than anything else, like he’s alarmed for Izaya’s mental health. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I didn’t think you owned anything other than the uniforms your beloved brother gave you,” Izaya tells him. “Especially not something so...so _festive_.”

Shizuo’s frown deepens into the familiar beginnings of anger. “Not everyone else dresses exclusively in black,” he shoots back. “It’s _Christmas_ , don’t you do anything to celebrate?”

“I don’t like Christmas,” Izaya informs him. “It’s a pointless holiday. Everyone’s so busy putting on their best imitation of happiness they can’t really be themselves again until halfway into the new year.” His legs have almost given over their prickling discomfort; he shakes his head and reaches out to brace his hand at the table so he can push himself to his feet. “I thought you might still be willing to have some fun, but it seems you’re more susceptible to the holiday spirit than I thought. Let me know when you’re ready to be yourself again.” He gets a foot under him, is bracing to push himself entirely upright; and then there’s movement in his periphery, Shizuo taking a step in over the distance between them, and Izaya throws himself sideways before he’s adequately processed the action. He ends up on the floor, one arm under him and the other halfway to drawing his knife on -- Shizuo, standing over him with one hand lifted up in a gesture of peace and the other extending the cup in his hold. They stare at each other for a moment, Izaya’s eyes wide and heart pounding and Shizuo frowning as if Izaya is some intractable problem of logic; and then he rocks his weight back, drawing himself away as if to ease out of the implication of danger. He keeps the cup extended.

“Here,” he says, gesturing vaguely with the cup. “Take it.”

“Why?” Izaya asks without moving from the floor or letting his hold on his knife go.

Shizuo huffs an exhale and rolls his eyes. “Just _take_ it,” he says, and leans forward, dropping to a knee as he offers the cup. Izaya still can’t make sense of the gesture -- nothing his imagination offers by way of explanation fits with anything he knows of Shizuo -- but Shizuo is about to shove the cup against his shoulder, so he lifts his hand to catch around the base of it just to stall the action. Shizuo lets it go, leaving the cup to Izaya’s hold as he turns away and gets back to his feet in a single motion; Izaya is left with his fingers clenched around the knife handle in his pocket, and a cup of sake in his hand, and a complete absence of comprehension in his thoughts.

“What--” he starts, and has to stop to swallow his voice back to something ordinary. “What is this?”

“It’s sake,” Shizuo says without turning around. He’s opening the cabinet for another glass, his movements clumsy on haste; Izaya can hear the _click_ of him setting it against the counter, can hear the spill of the sake pouring into the second cup. “You drink it.”

“I know what to do with sake,” Izaya says. “Why are you giving it to me?”

Shizuo huffs a sigh. “I told Kasuka I wouldn’t fight,” he says before turning around with his sake cup in one hand and the open bottle in the other. “I don’t want to fight with you tonight.” He sets the bottle heavily on the table before dropping to kneel on the far side, across from Izaya. “Let’s drink instead.”

Izaya stares at him. “You could just tell me to get lost.”

Shizuo shrugs, one shoulder pulling up sharply under that knit sweater and his mouth drawing down into a frown. “You’re not causing problems right now. And it’s almost Christmas, anyway.” He starts to lift the cup to his mouth before hesitating and glancing across the table at Izaya. His eyes are dark, his mouth still tense, but he only pauses for a heartbeat before holding his cup out over the distance of the table, the gesture so direct as to be unmistakeable. “Merry Christmas.”

It takes Izaya a long moment to respond. Even when he does, he’s fairly sure it’s as much autopilot as anything else that steers him to sit upright and reach out to clink the lip of his cup against Shizuo’s. His answer is reflexive, too, coming unbidden from his lips when the quiet of that brief metallic sound grows heavy with expectation. “Merry Christmas.”

Shizuo nods -- it’s strange how much it feels like approval -- and tips his cup back to take a swallow of the alcohol inside. Izaya brings his to his lips as well, sipping carefully against the alcoholic bite and sweet aftertaste of the liquid; it warms his throat going down, he would swear he can feel it spreading out to fill the whole of his chest with radiance as he pulls the cup away from his mouth.

“Good, right?” Shizuo asks from the other side of the table. He’s looking at his cup when Izaya raises his head to gaze at him, has his eyes fixed to the curve of it like he’s trying to keep his attention on something other than the identity of the person sitting across from him. “Kasuka gave it to me for Christmas.”

There’s a prickle that runs down Izaya’s spine, a shiver of almost-heat that he would swear lifts like static against the hair at the back of his neck. “And you’re sharing it with your most hated enemy?” He lifts his cup to his mouth, punctuating the statement with a longer swallow than his first; Shizuo glances up as Izaya lowers it again, his eyes dark and shadowed under the fall of his hair. He’s not frowning, quite; his mouth looks oddly soft without the weight of irritation tensing at his lips. “You have a strange kind of holiday cheer, Shizu-chan.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him without looking away from Izaya’s face. “Aren’t you supposed to share gifts with other people? I guess I could take this to Shinra’s, but Celty can’t drink anything and I wouldn’t want her to feel left out.” He shrugs again, that short-lived lift of his shoulder as his eyes drop back to the cup in his hand. “And you’re here already.”

“So you might as well share with me?” Izaya asks. “You must be really hard up for friends, to count me even at the bottom of the list.” He makes a show of finishing his cup of sake -- it’s enough to pull Shizuo’s attention back to him, enough to start the suggestion of a scowl at the other’s mouth -- before setting his cup down hard against the table and reaching for the bottle with ostentatious possessiveness. Shizuo’s gaze follows the motion, his scowl deepening as Izaya’s fingers close against the curve of the glass, but he doesn’t make any motion to halt the other’s action, even as Izaya tips the bottle sideways to splash liquid into his cup. “You should be thanking me for saving you from a Christmas Eve all alone.”

“I was with my family,” Shizuo says, looking up from the bottle to glare at Izaya again. His mouth is set around that frown still but his eyes are softer than Izaya is used to seeing them, like the dark behind his lashes has been bruised into hurt; it makes Izaya’s spine prickle, makes him duck his head to gaze at his cup as he reaches out to set the bottle aside again. “I had people to visit, at least.” Izaya closes his hand around his cup, lifting the sake to his lips for a rushed swallow so he can have something to look at other than the dark attention behind Shizuo’s gaze on him. “Didn’t you have anyone to spend the night with?”

Izaya swallows more of the sake than he should at one go. It burns down his throat and doesn’t do justice to the subtleties of the flavor across his tongue, but it also keeps his mouth occupied, and gives him an excuse for the overlong delay that comes before he sets the glass down and musters a deliberately taunting grin for Shizuo’s benefit. “Of course I did, Shizu-chan. I spent the whole afternoon with a lovely young woman, after all.” Namie wouldn’t appreciate the compliment any more than she’d appreciate the silent vitriol of her presence being suggested to be a date, even in mockery; but she’s not here, and the truth of the statement if not the implication makes it fall the more easily from Izaya’s lips.

Shizuo blinks, that bruised-in softness behind his eyes hardening and drawing away as if it’s slipping behind the usual wall of anger he has to offer. “Of course,” he says, and reaches for his cup to down the mouthful of liquid left in it. “You always did have a whole harem of followers in high school, didn’t you?”

“I’m flattered you remembered,” Izaya purrs. “Did it make an impact? Jealous of my popularity, Shizu-chan? If you had asked nicely I could have let you take one or two of them out on a date, you know.”

Shizuo makes a face. “ _No_ ,” he says, the word so laced with disgust it actually sounds like sincerity instead of denial. “They were always…” He stops and shakes his head like he’s struggling for the words, but the discomfort of the memory is still clear across his face. “It was like they worshipped you or something. I don’t know why you’d like that.”

“I didn’t,” Izaya scoffs, rejection of the idea coming too fast for him to call it back until the words are out of his mouth.

Shizuo’s head tips, his forehead creases. “What? You didn’t what?”

“I didn’t like it,” Izaya says, reaching for an offhand tone as if this is no big deal, as if he hasn’t tripped over his own accidental sincerity to shatter the persona he’s been maintaining since high school. He set his elbow against the table and lifts his hand to brace against his head, keeping his gaze fixed on the cup in his other hand as a safer point of focus than Shizuo across the table from him. “They were useful to have around, they weren’t like girlfriends or anything. I didn’t like any of them in particular.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Shizuo tells him. “Are you really trying to claim that you couldn’t have dated anyone you wanted in high school?”

Izaya snorts. “You overestimate my appeal,” he says. “The only person I ever had a crush on never had the least interest in me.”

It’s a stupid admission. He should have kept his mouth shut, he knows, he knew before he even gave voice to the words. But Shizuo’s tone is so dismissive of so many years of unvoiced want, and Izaya’s chest is burning from the alcohol and emotion together, and he’s always been too willing to sacrifice himself just to win an argument.

“You had a crush on someone in high school?” Shizuo asks. Izaya lifts his cup to his mouth to swallow back another mouthful of sake rather than meeting Shizuo’s gaze; he doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing, doesn’t want to run the risk of spilling any more of his own secrets by a careless flinch or an unwary blink. “Who?”

Izaya sets the cup down against the table carefully, with deliberate intention in the movement of his hand. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, and then he looks up to meet Shizuo’s gaze across the table for a moment. It’s a casual glance, nothing important, carrying no particular weight at all; he holds it for one second, two, an aggressively reasonable period of time, before he turns his head to look away at the kitchen as if the bare countertops are of more idle interest than the attention Shizuo is fixing him with from across the table. “It was a long time ago and nothing came of it.”

“Who was it?” Shizuo asks again, his voice starting to growl over the same persistence that keeps him chasing Izaya across the whole of the city no matter how long Izaya runs or how far they travel, the same single-minded focus that always aches some deep-down satisfaction into Izaya’s bones, as if the attention is enough to unravel some of the painful want that he’s carried with him since he was sixteen and watching a boy with bleached-blond hair and a blue jacket walk through the front gates of his high school. “Did I know her?”

Izaya clears his throat. “You knew them pretty well, yeah.”

“In high school?” Shizuo asks. “I didn’t know _any_ girls in high school, everyone was afraid of me.”

“As well they should have been,” Izaya says. “You’re a menace to the safety of those around you, Shizu-chan, anyone with half a brain knew to stay well clear of you.”

Shizuo snorts. “Where does that leave you and Shinra?”

Izaya shrugs. “I never claimed Shinra was particularly intelligent. Look who he chose for his friends, obviously he has some issues when it comes to self-preservation.” Shizuo huffs a laugh, as he was meant to, and for a moment Izaya thinks he’s successfully dodged the sharp edge of Shizuo’s unthinking questions.

He should have known better than to think Shizuo would make things easy on him.

“Seriously.” Shizuo lifts his cup to his mouth, attempting a swallow before pausing to frown at the empty interior. He sets it back on the table and reaches for the open bottle. “Who was it?”

Izaya can feel his jaw set, can feel his face going warmer than the interior of Shizuo’s apartment can possibly account for. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “It was years ago, why do you even care?”

“I’m curious,” Shizuo tells him. “I always thought you could seduce any girl you wanted, I want to know who was smart enough to see through your act.” He’s grinning from the other side of the table, a sharp edge on the expression like the smiles he offers at the beginning of their more usual fights; when he braces the bottle against his thumb to pour himself a refill the splash of the liquid catches bright and sparkling in the light. “Maybe I could make friends with her.”

Izaya stares at the sake spilling from the bottle into Shizuo’s cup, feels his fingers tightening against the curve of his own. “I never said it was a _her_.”

“What?” Shizuo says, tipping the bottle back to upright and setting it aside. “What do you mean, you never…” and Izaya can see awareness flicker into understanding behind the other’s eyes, can see the edge of Shizuo’s smile dull and fade as his voice trails off to silence. Izaya looks down into his cup, ducking his head to shadow his face from the intensity of Shizuo’s gaze on him. He feels cold, like the winter chill of the air outside is seeping into his bones and freezing the rhythm of his heart beating in his chest; it’s hard to catch a breath, with the force of Shizuo’s attention pressing down so hard against him.

“You--” Shizuo starts, and then stalls, whatever he was going to say tangled to silence on his tongue. Izaya is irrationally grateful for the brief pause, even knowing it’s only temporary; it’s another moment of uncertainty left hanging in the air between them, another moment before Shizuo’s understanding catches up with the too-open admission of Izaya’s alcohol-quick speech. There’s a heartbeat of silence, a breath’s worth of quiet; and then Shizuo clears his throat, and says, “Is that why you don’t like Celty?” with his voice strained on the effort over the words.

Izaya closes his eyes, hissing frustrated negation as he lifts a hand to cover his face. “Not Shinra.” He wonders if he’s going to have to shoot down more suggestions, if he’ll have to work through the entirety of everyone he spoke to in high school before Shizuo will understand; but Shizuo goes quiet, as silent as if he’s entirely forgotten how to speak, and Izaya can all but taste certainty off the tension in the air between them. Seconds drag long, the silence stretches taut; and finally Izaya takes a breath, and clears his throat, and lets his hand fall from his face as he turns his attention deliberately towards the bottle of sake instead.

“It was a long time ago.” The bottle is lighter than he was expecting it to be, it gives far more quickly to his pull than he thought it would; it makes his movement jerky and rushed before he can catch back the action and slow it to a deliberate tilt of the glass over his cup. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” The sake pours into his cup, the splash of it loud as a backdrop to the thrum of Izaya’s pulse; he thinks his hands would be shaking if it weren’t for the brace of the glass and metal against his fingers. “Do you want more?”

“Huh?” Shizuo looks down at the cup still in his hold. “Oh. No. I’m fine.”

“Fine.” Izaya sets the bottle back down and lifts his cup to his lips; he takes a smaller sip, this time, more for the taste of the liquid against his tongue than for the achy burn of the alcohol spilling down his throat. “What about you?”

Shizuo blinks. “What about me?”

“I’m curious,” Izaya bites off, dragging the words to razor sharpness past the set of his teeth. “It’s not fair for you to insist I spill all my secrets and offer none of your own in return. Who did _you_ like in high school?” He splashes another taste of the sake over his tongue. “Was it one of my following? Did I steal the love of your life away from you, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo frowns. “No,” he says, but even that isn’t as aggressive as it should be; he still sounds more confused than anything, like he’s still stuck on the topic Izaya would prefer they move away from as rapidly as possible. “I didn’t really like anyone. I...hurt people, when I was younger.”

“You still hurt people now,” Izaya tells him, digging hard in pursuit of a flinch of reaction like payback for the burn of embarrassment still aching across his cheeks. “That hasn’t changed.”

Shizuo glares at him. “I didn’t say it had,” he says, and that’s satisfyingly angry, Izaya can all but hear the flames of temper flickering into a growl at the back of the other’s throat. “I don’t want to get close to someone just to hurt them when I lose it.”

“How noble of you,” Izaya drawls, feeling his smile gain traction in direct proportion to the weight of Shizuo’s frown. “Do your ideals do a good job of keeping you warm at night?”

“They’re a lot better than you would be,” Shizuo snaps.

Izaya can feel his smile give way at once, as if the weight of Shizuo’s words is a slap full across his face. His eyes go wide, his hand clenches hard against the side of his cup; if he had even a fraction of Shizuo’s strength, he’s sure the metal of it would give way against the press of his fingers. Shizuo cringes on the other side of the table, ducking his head and lifting a hand to shove through his hair as if to make a wall of his arm.

“Sorry,” he says down towards the cup in his hand. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“Wasn’t it?” Izaya asks, feeling the words like ice on his tongue. Whatever flush of embarrassment he was suffering from is gone, as absent as if he had stepped out into a snowstorm and chilled all the blood in his veins to solid weight. “What _did_ you mean?” Shizuo flinches again, his head ducking down farther as if in protection from Izaya’s words, and Izaya twists his fingers against the cup in his hands, feeling the texture slide hard under the print of his skin.

“Whatever,” he says, and lifts the cup to his lips to down a harsh swallow of liquid. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I told you, it was years ago. We’re all entitled to a little childish stupidity, aren’t we? God knows I don’t want anything to do with you now.” The alcohol is burning down his throat, hot against his tongue; he feels like his words are running away with him, spilling out to land like blows that he can see Shizuo flinch from with every sound. “I should have just kissed you when I was a kid and gotten over it then, I’m sure the experience would have been repulsive enough to turn me off permanently.” Shizuo lifts his head at that, his mouth drawing down into the start of almost-hurt, and Izaya laughs, his voice skidding out over its highest range at this evidence of traction gained. “What, do you wish I had? At least then you could have had a first kiss at all. Or are you still waiting for some sweet girl to see past the monster to the man inside?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls. “I’m not waiting for anyone.”

“You _have_ given up, then,” Izaya says. The words flicker like an open flame in his veins, heat rising to nearly the point of pain as they catch on themselves to tumble louder in volume. “Too bad, you know, even if you find a girl willing to look away from your destructiveness you’ll give yourself away as a virgin the moment you actually try to touch her.”

“I’m not--” Shizuo starts, and then stops, his face lighting up in a way that completely undoes his claim even before he says it. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Izaya has his teeth into the subject, now; he’s almost laughing, he can feel mania bright alongside the adrenaline in his veins. He braces an elbow on the table and leans far forward, tipping his chin down to cast his eyes into shadow and flash his smile the brighter for the darkness. “I don’t believe you, Shizu-chan.” He tips his head to the side, lets his mouth tug up sharply at one corner; Shizuo is staring at him, a scowl at his lips and darkness in his eyes, but he’s not looking away, and Izaya can feel the force of the other’s attention coursing through him like lightning grounding out against his chest. “You can’t lie to me.”

“I’m not _lying_ ,” Shizuo says, his whole face crimson now, the color running up to his hairline and starting to climb the curve of his ears. Izaya’s never felt more satisfied in all his life. “Just because _you_ lie about _everything_ doesn’t mean everyone else does too.”

“Alright then,” Izaya says, feeling the words inevitable on his tongue, as if Shizuo has taken a half-step sideways and right into the trap Izaya laid for him. “Prove it.”

Shizuo goes perfectly still; even the darkness in his eyes eases for a moment, making way for gold-washed brown for a heartbeat of time as his forehead creases on confusion and his lips part on uncertainty. “What?”

“Prove it.” Izaya pushes his cup to the side of the table and braces his other arm flat across the surface alongside the first. The movement barely shifts him forward by an inch, but with only a handspan between them the difference is breathtaking. “You know what you’re doing, do you? Don’t you think your technique can hold up to mine?” He’s grinning, there’s near-hysterical laughter in the back of his throat; his heart is hammering in his chest, he can hardly breathe for the strain against his shoulders. “You have the advantage, even, I spent all of high school pining for you. Nostalgia has to count for _something_ , right?” Izaya lets his head tip farther to the side, lets his lashes flutter in an overblown attempt at flirting intended to be more insulting than effective. “It’s just a Christmas kiss, Shizu-chan.”

Izaya doesn’t know what he’s expecting. He thinks Shizuo might pull back and away from him, perhaps, might recoil across the width of the table and gulp down the whole of his cup of sake at a go; that would be a victory of its own, he thinks, worth a laugh and the cold satisfaction of success. If he pushes hard enough he thinks Shizuo might actually hit him, promise to Kasuka or no; Izaya doesn’t think he could block effectively from this range, even if he saw the blow coming in time, but there would be some kind of relief to the pain too, to the crush of knuckles against delicate skin and the give of bone to Shizuo’s everpresent force. That would be a win too, a win over the adopted self-control Izaya knows is as much of a lie as Shizuo must suspect it to be; it would be well worth the black eye and broken cheekbone he’d be likely to get from a blow at this range. Even Shizuo laughing in his face wouldn’t be completely surprising; Izaya’s words are coming rushed on the almost-panic of intoxication, they hardly make sense even in the echoing space of his own head. Any of those would be reasonable, would fall well within Izaya’s expectations for the reality of the world he lives in.

He should have known better than to think Shizuo would fit inside those.

Shizuo doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t laugh. His face doesn’t drop into a scowl, his hand doesn’t clench into a fist. He just stares at Izaya for a moment, the clear dark of his eyes fixed on the other’s face; and then his attention drops, his focus falling to land against the deliberately sultry part of Izaya’s lips, and Izaya can feel all his blood run suddenly, startlingly hot in his veins. He sucks in a breath, reflex catching up to the implication of Shizuo’s attention before his mind does; but Shizuo is reaching out for him, his hand catching and closing against Izaya’s chin to brace him still, and Izaya doesn’t have time to do anything more than open his eyes wide before Shizuo’s mouth is pressing flush against his.

It’s not elegant. Izaya was expecting that, was expecting the rough, awkward weight of a kiss from someone who doesn’t understand any of the details beyond the basic premise of crushing lips together; he had had some vague, half-formed thought of catching Shizuo’s mouth with his, and dragging his teeth to shivery friction over the other’s lips, and tracing ticklish patterns against the roof of the other’s mouth with his tongue to leave Shizuo breathless and stunned and Izaya ultimately, completely victorious. But there’s no space for subtlety, no room for elegant grace, because Shizuo is kissing like he fights, rough and fast and _present_ , and it’s all Izaya can do to hold on to his own self against the overwhelming force of it. Shizuo’s mouth is against his, crushing heat into his lips and jolting down the whole of his spine as his hold at Izaya’s chin braces the other still, and Izaya’s breath is rushing out of him as every thought of technique or intention evaporates from his mind at once. His hand comes up, his fingers drag and pull at Shizuo’s sweater, and Shizuo pushes in closer over the table, parting his lips to lick roughly against the give of Izaya’s. Izaya opens his mouth without thinking, surrender coming too fast for him to work through the action, and then Shizuo is licking into his mouth and over his tongue and Izaya is going dizzy with the force of it, feeling like he’s trying to keep his footing while an earthquake rattles through the whole of his body. His heart is thudding on frantic adrenaline, he’s whimpering some low desperate sound against Shizuo’s mouth; and Shizuo pulls back, gasping a breath like he’s trying to hold all the air in the room in his lungs, and Izaya is left to blink hard as he tries to clear his vision back to some kind of reality that makes sense.

 _Oh_ , he says, except the word doesn’t make it to sound, the noise stalls somewhere against the inside of his chest. His mouth is tingling, his lips hot as if there’s fire crackling over them; he touches his tongue to them to lick unconscious damp across the skin. They taste unfamiliar, like the print of Shizuo’s mouth has somehow fundamentally altered the composition of his own body, like all the particles in him have been magnetized by that one point of contact.

“Ah,” Shizuo says, and if Izaya’s voice is gone Shizuo’s is the lower to make up for it, dropping heavy into the air until Izaya can feel more than hear it. “You taste good.”

Izaya blinks. Shizuo is staring at him, his gaze wandering over Izaya’s face like he’s never seen the other before; Izaya can feel gravity veer under him, can feel a shudder of panic hit as he realizes how wide-open his expression is, as he realizes he has no idea what Shizuo can see on his face.

“Sure,” he manages, forcing the words out until he can hear them, even if he hardly recognizes his voice for the grit of effort that comes with the sound. “It’s the sake.”

Shizuo’s lashes dip. Izaya can see the whole arc of the motion draw down over the color of his eyes, can watch the weight of them rise again along with the other’s attention. “Is it.”

Izaya nods, the motion half-formed and stalled against Shizuo’s hold against his chin. “Yeah,” he says, and reaches sideways without looking to fumble a hold onto his cup. His movement in bringing it to his mouth is clumsy, awkward with haste and the tremor running through his arm, but he doesn’t care; it’s enough to tip it up to spill wet across his mouth, to dampen the tingling electricity against his lips to moisture before he shoves the cup away again without any care to where it ends up. “See?”

“Oh,” Shizuo says, and then he’s leaning back in over the table, pressing his mouth against the wet of Izaya’s without giving the other time to so much as lick the sake off his lips. Izaya’s eyes shut of their own accord, his throat gives up another one of those strange, pained moans, and Shizuo’s other hand is in his hair, now, reaching to curl against the back of his head to brace him still for the weight of the other’s mouth on his. Izaya needs the support; he isn’t sure he could offer resistance to Shizuo otherwise, not with the force of the other’s mouth bearing down against his own. He’s never been any good at close-range combat with Shizuo, it’s his way to keep his distance and use speed to dodge more than hand-to-hand combat ability; but now Shizuo’s fingers are tensing against his hair, and Shizuo’s hand is dropping from his chin to make a fist of his shirt, and when Shizuo pulls Izaya topples forward, slipping halfway across the table before he can get a hand against the surface and pull back enough to gasp protest.

“The sake,” he says, the words coming rough on desperation in the back of his throat. “Shizu-chan, you’re going to spill it everywhere.”

“What?” Shizuo blinks, his head turning to look towards the edge of the table where the half-empty bottle is still standing; Izaya can all but see focus come back into his eyes, as if he had forgotten anything else in the room existed for the span of time his mouth was pressed to Izaya’s. The idea of that prickles electricity straight down Izaya’s spine and stalls his breath against tension high in his chest, and he’s still gasping on the ragged edges of his inhale when Shizuo’s expression clears into comprehension.

“Oh,” he says, and then he’s moving all at once, without offering the least hesitation or warning as he pulls at Izaya’s shirt to drag the other around the corner of the table. Izaya’s moving before he realizes he’s going to, sliding across the floor while he’s still choking on a breath of near-protest; his balance is gone, he would be falling over the floor were it not for Shizuo’s fixed grip on the front of his shirt. As it is he has to struggle to get his knees under him, even just for the moment it takes to fumble his way around the edge of the table, and his hip catches hard at the edge of the furniture, the impact enough to promise a bruise later when Izaya has the time to spare to give it attention. He certainly doesn’t now; Shizuo’s fingers are still fisted in his shirt, and Shizuo is dragging him bodily closer, and Izaya can’t catch his breath for how hard his heart is pounding at being forcibly pulled nearer to Shizuo still sitting at the edge of the table.

He falls forward as Shizuo drags him closer, throwing his hand out to catch himself; his palm lands flat on the floor in the gap between Shizuo’s legs, his knee runs up hard against the other’s thigh, and Izaya only has time to lift his head in anticipation of voicing some unformed question before Shizuo’s ducking in for his mouth again. His hand returns to Izaya’s shoulder, his fingers push rough over the weight of the other’s shirt as his touch shoves sideways, and then his arm is dropping around Izaya’s shoulders and he’s pulling the other in and Izaya can’t do anything but capitulate to the force. His fingers are back at Shizuo’s sweater, his hand curling into a reflexive hold as if to cling to this impossible reality of Shizuo holding him close against himself, of Shizuo’s hand bracing hard at his shoulder and Shizuo’s hair tickling his forehead and Shizuo’s mouth crushing hard against his. Shizuo lets Izaya’s shirtfront go, his fingers returning to the other’s chin instead, and Izaya lets his mouth open in surrender even before Shizuo’s touch urges him to it, relaxes his jaw and parts his lips and lets Shizuo lick back inside the heat of his mouth. Shizuo’s the one who makes a sound this time, something low and purring with satisfaction that Izaya can feel run through his whole body to pool to heat in his stomach, and then Shizuo’s hand drops from his chin and catches around Izaya’s waist instead, and when he pulls Izaya slides sideways and into the other’s lap before he’s figured out what Shizuo intends. His hand catches against Shizuo’s thigh, his knee digs in hard against the other’s waist, but Shizuo doesn’t so much as flinch from the impact; he seems wholly occupied in undoing every shred of coherency Izaya has via the press of his mouth against the other’s. Izaya wrenches his hand free and reaches up to grab at Shizuo’s hair, twisting his fingers into a fist of the strands; when he drags Shizuo’s head goes back as well, the other submitting to the pull in the first instinctive surrender to the action. Izaya gasps a breath, blinking hard to shake the haze from his vision, and in front of him Shizuo’s panting for air, his eyelids heavy and lashes dark with the friction still bruising his mouth to red.

“You,” Izaya starts, fumbling for words as his focus scatters like snow in the wind. “Shizu-chan.” His heart is pounding, his thoughts are dizzy; everything feels surreal, like a dream dragged so suddenly into the daylight he can’t make sense of the shape of it. “Are you _drunk_?”

Shizuo blinks. His eyes are very dark, darker than Izaya has ever seen them before; but the focus behind his lashes is crystal-clear as his chin dips down to cast his gaze to intensity. “No,” he says, and his voice is growling, Izaya can feel it run through his body like lightning grounding itself out against the highest available point. “Are you?”

Izaya can’t speak. His heart is pounding too hard, his throat is tensing too tight; the best he can manage is to shake his head, the movement rough with sincerity.

Shizuo huffs a sound. Izaya can feel the heat of it against his mouth. “That’s what I thought,” he says, and he leans in again in complete disregard of Izaya’s hold at his hair. Izaya’s eyes shut as Shizuo’s mouth lands on his, his attention narrowing down to that one point of friction as it returns, and when he opens his mouth this time it’s to touch his tongue to Shizuo’s lips, to taste the tang of sake clinging to the heat of the other’s mouth and catch the edge of his teeth against the soft of Shizuo’s lips. Shizuo hisses the edge of what might be a warning, the sound coming far in the back of his throat, and Izaya bites harder, pressing his teeth farther against the give of the other’s lip in pursuit of more of that sound. Shizuo’s hand at his shoulders tightens, Shizuo’s arm around his waist flexes, and then he’s turning, shifting his weight sideways and around to topple Izaya over onto the floor under him. Izaya lands hard, his breath shuddering out of him in a jolting rush, and Shizuo is on top of him before he can manage another inhale, crushing Izaya down against the resistance of the floor with heated haste writ large in every rushed drag of his fingers. Izaya’s still kissing him back, still fighting for the control he so entirely lost with that first slide of Shizuo’s lips against his, but Shizuo has the advantage of position, now, and when his fingers slide against Izaya’s waist to catch at the curve of his hip and slip just under the hem of the other’s shirt Izaya has no control at all over the way his body arches sharply off the floor and up to press close against Shizuo’s chest.

“Fuck,” Shizuo groans, pulling away from Izaya’s mouth for a moment to gasp for breath. His fingers flex against Izaya’s hip; Izaya can feel the weight of the other’s arm pressing hard against the whole dip of his back. “Izaya.” His thumb slides to brace against Izaya’s skin, his fingers shift by an inch; Izaya can feel the weight of them catch at the waistband of his pants, can feel all his gravity evaporate out from under him as Shizuo’s touch tugs and slides under the weight of the fabric. He doesn’t mean to make the sound he does -- it’s something ridiculous, he can hear it is, a whimper that drops off into a moan as Shizuo’s fingers slide against him -- but he can’t call it back, and Shizuo is staring down at him with all the focus behind those dark eyes pinned close to Izaya’s face. His lips are parted on his breathing, his cheeks are flushed into heat; but he’s not ducking in for another kiss, he’s just watching Izaya’s face as his fingers slide lower, pushing up against the edge of accident and verging into intent. Izaya wants to turn away, wants to duck his head and hide behind the shadow of his hair or the cut of a smirk; but the light is behind Shizuo’s head, it’s glowing at the gold of the other’s hair and illuminating Izaya’s face to perfect clarity, and he can’t calm his breathing enough to even make an attempt at the grin he’d like to offer. He feels open, stripped bare even with the weight of his clothes still pressing close against him; and then Shizuo takes a breath, audibly steadying himself for action, and pushes his hand down past the waistband of Izaya’s jeans. Izaya’s breath rushes out of him, turning over on the shape of a groan he can’t hold back, but Shizuo doesn’t pull his hand away, and far in the back of Izaya’s mind some remnant of his sixteen-year-old self is whimpering disbelief at having Heiwajima Shizuo so precisely and absolutely where Izaya always used to imagine him being. That fantasy he gave up on a long time ago, buried it deep under the rubble of the destruction they have caused with their fights and the resignation to _enough_ that never quite satisfied; but now here it is, fully formed, the whole weight of Shizuo atop him to hold him steady against the floor as his fingers slide over the clinging tension of Izaya’s briefs pressing close to the curve of his ass. Izaya’s flushing, he thinks, his whole face is hot with too many causes to separate; and then Shizuo’s touch pushes against him, pinning the thin elastic of the fabric between his fingertips and Izaya’s entrance, and Izaya’s eyes go wide, his whole body arching up at the starburst friction of Shizuo’s touch against him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he blurts, but it comes out closer to a moan than to rejection, and over him Shizuo makes a low noise in the back of his throat and pushes harder, grinding friction against Izaya like he’s trying to push inside him. Izaya’s skin is flickering with heat, his body tensing in involuntary reaction to the drag over sensitive nerve endings, and in the back of his head there’s a rising tide of want, fantasy and desire toppling one over another to plead for Shizuo’s fingers inside him, for the satisfaction of pressure stretching him open, for Shizuo’s cock to--

“Wait,” Izaya says. He can’t think with Shizuo’s fingers against him, with friction pulling the outline of promise against his skin; his legs keep flexing, his body keeps trying to jerk up in involuntary plea for more. “Shizu-chan, wait.”

Shizuo blinks, some clarity coming back into the shadowed-over focus of his face. “What?” His touch stills but his hand stays where it is; Izaya can feel the pressure of the other’s touch against him like it’s just waiting for permission. “Why? You’re liking this, aren’t you?” His head dips down, his attention flickering for a moment to the painfully obvious strain at the front of Izaya’s jeans; Izaya can feel his face go hot with embarrassment even before Shizuo looks back up to him, his forehead creasing as his mouth drags down to the start of a frown. “Is this another one of your stupid plots?”

“No,” Izaya tells him, the word coming a little bit too fast on desperation to pass as calm even momentarily. “No, no plot, I swear. Just...we would be more comfortable in the other room.”

It takes Shizuo a moment to catch up. Izaya can see the strain across the other’s forehead ease, can see confusion flicker across his expression; and then, as Izaya tips his head to glance pointedly towards the bedroom, “ _Oh_ ,” with all the weight of epiphany behind the sound. “Are you sure?”

“Very,” Izaya says, drawling the word down towards the closest thing to mockery he can manage when his heart is trying to rattle itself free of his chest. “I’m bruised enough as it is, thanks.”

It’s not the comfort Shizuo was asking about, and Izaya knows it; but his disregard of the actual question is enough to ease the other’s concerns, or maybe the bite of his words just spikes Shizuo’s irritation high enough that he doesn’t care anymore. “Okay,” he says, the word only a little rough in the back of his throat, and then “come on” before he’s loosened his hold on Izaya at all. Izaya is expecting Shizuo to disentangle himself, to pull away and leave Izaya to collect himself before following him to the other room; but when he moves it’s to sit up without letting Izaya go, pulling the other up off the floor with him, and Izaya is left to yelp choked-off surprise and clutch desperately at Shizuo’s neck to steady himself as the other gets to his feet. Shizuo doesn’t react at all, either to the burden of Izaya’s weight or to the unbalanced struggling of the other’s actions; he just tightens his hold, pressing Izaya close against his shoulder as he strides over the few feet to the other room.

“This is thrilling, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, aiming for a teasing tone to cover up the all-too-sincere breathlessness knotting like a fist around his heart. “Who knew you could just carry me off at the whim of a moment?” Shizuo huffs acknowledgment without coherency and steps through the doorway of the bedroom to move towards the bed. He kneels at the edge of the mattress, Izaya can hear the rustle of the blanket giving way to their weight, and it’s not until Shizuo loosens his hold on him that Izaya is allowed to fall back over the soft of the sheets. His landing is far more gentle this time, cushioned by the give of the bed and the depth of the blankets under him, but he’s left struggling for breath anyway, his lungs straining for air he can’t get for the self-awareness of being in Shizuo’s bedroom, on Shizuo’s bed, with Shizuo leaning over him and Shizuo’s fingers sliding free of his jeans to reach for the fastenings at the front instead. Izaya’s head tips down almost of its own volition, instinct following the action of Shizuo’s hand as the other braces himself over him and pushes at the button holding the top edge of the denim closed; Izaya can see how hard he is, if he couldn’t feel every thrum of his heartbeat urging him hotter, can see the outline of his cock straining at the fabric like it’s trying to press against Shizuo’s touch.

“This isn’t what I expected to be doing this Christmas,” he admits, his words coming without thought as Shizuo gets the button of his jeans free and catches to drag at the pull of the zipper too. “I really thought tonight was going to go somewhat differently.”

“No kidding,” Shizuo says. Izaya’s jeans come open, the fabric falling apart to leave just the dark fabric of his briefs pulled taut over the head of his cock, but Shizuo barely spares a glance before he’s rocking back on his heels so he can fit his hands to Izaya’s hips and slide his fingers to press between the layers of clothing and bare skin. “Merry Christmas, I guess.”

Izaya’s laugh catches him unawares, spilling sudden from his throat to ring bright in the air before he can clap a hand to his mouth to press the sound back. Shizuo’s pulling his clothes off his hips and down his legs, his fingers trailing heat in their wake, and the air of the room is cool against Izaya’s bare skin but he feels like he’s glowing, like the whole unreality of the moment has inverted to turn to heat in his veins.

“Merry Christmas,” he manages, dropping his hand from his mouth and looking down as Shizuo drags his clothes off his feet and pushes them aside to fall to the floor. Izaya’s cock is flushed to saturated dark, the head of it achingly full and shine-slick with liquid, but he’s not looking at himself; he’s looking at Shizuo kneeling on the bed between his legs, watching the other shake his hair out of his face as he frowns himself into consideration of the space around them. “I guess your dear brother had the right idea after all.”

Shizuo glances up at Izaya, just for a moment. His eyes are dark, his forehead creased like he thinks Izaya might be mocking him, but whatever he sees in the other’s face is enough to ease his expression back from the start of irritation that was building behind his eyes. He huffs a laugh instead, giving way to the start of a smile as he looks back down to the edge of the bed. “I don’t think this is what he had in mind,” is all he says, and his attention is clearly elsewhere; he’s bracing himself at the edge of the bed, holding to the edge of the frame with one hand while he fumbles underneath the mattress. Izaya is left to shift his knees against the sheets, to feel the way the fabric catches to the heat-sweat damp at his skin, and then Shizuo is straightening, his head ducked forward as he twists open the cap of the bottle in his hand. “Not that I think he’d care particularly.”

“Yes, your brother has always been a paragon of acceptance,” Izaya says, holding to enough composure that Shizuo’s uncertain glance at him doesn’t linger over the details of his expression. “You’re the one who rejects people out-of-hand.”

Shizuo scoffs. “I don’t _reject_ things,” he says, his attention on his hand as he turns the bottle up to spill slick liquid across his fingers. The shine of it catches the light against his skin, draws Izaya’s attention to the wet coating Shizuo’s hand, and for a moment he doesn’t even have the breath to voice a protest. “You’ve got that all backwards.”

“Oh, yes,” Izaya drawls, pulling the words into a taunt as Shizuo reaches to brace a hand high against the inside of his thigh, his fingers catching to weight Izaya’s leg open at an angle enough to be more than an invitation. Izaya can feel his legs trembling with anticipation but he clings to the appearance of composure, even manages to have a smirk waiting when Shizuo glances up to his face. “You’ve _never_ decided to hate someone on sight without even knowing their name.”

Shizuo’s forehead creases. “Shut up,” he says. “I knew your name.”

“And not much else,” Izaya tells him. Shizuo’s hand is stalled in midair, locked to stillness by the other’s inattention; he feels like he’s going to come alight for want of that touch. “Lost your nerve?”

“What?” Shizuo blinks, looks down. “Oh. No” and he’s reaching out as immediately as Izaya could wish, lube-slick fingers catching to drag over the other’s entrance in a sudden burst of slippery friction. Izaya jerks with the contact, his leg flexing hard against the unshakeable wall of Shizuo’s hand holding him still, and against him Shizuo’s fingers drag, Shizuo’s touch tenses to offer pressure against the slick resistance of Izaya’s body.

“Oh god,” Izaya says, his voice breaking on too-much anticipation too-hot in his veins, and then Shizuo pushes forward and into him and he has to shut his eyes, he can’t stand to feel Shizuo moving into him at the same time he meets the dark of that stare fixed so intently on his face. It takes an effort to manage a full breath, more to let it go; it’s not until Shizuo is drawing back out of him for another slow slide in that Izaya can trust his voice to spill smoothly from his lips, and another span of heartbeats before he can find the words to offer distraction for whatever reaction must be playing clear over his face.

“You _did_ decide to hate me on sight,” he says to the dark of his shut eyes, offering the words into shaky truth over the tremble of his mouth and the flex of his fingers on the sheets under him. “You would never have guessed you’d end up here, huh?”

There’s a pause, a hesitation in the stroke of Shizuo’s hand. Izaya can feel the stillness like an ache all through his body, can feel the desperate desire for more running up his spine like a shock; he opens his eyes, lifting his head to frown attention at Shizuo, but Shizuo’s not looking at him at all. He’s looking down instead, staring at the inside of Izaya’s thighs like he’s only just realized what he’s seeing, as if he’s only just processed who he’s touching. Izaya can feel panic tensing in his chest, is opening his mouth to offer some off-hand joke to push aside Shizuo’s distraction, to get Shizuo to _move_ again, and then Shizuo says in a rush “I used to jerk off to you” as his cheeks color into the beginnings of pink.

Izaya’s breath rushes out of him, and not just from the slide of pressure as Shizuo shoves hard into him again. “You _what_?”

“I’d jerk off to you.” Shizuo is looking at his hand instead of at Izaya’s face; there’s a frown at his lips, as if of concentration, and his movement is coming rougher, now, a counterpoint of distraction from his words. “In high school, after we’d get into fights. I’d come home and think about you while I…”

“Jesus,” Izaya says, and then Shizuo’s touch thrusts deep into him and he loses his voice for a moment as his body curves to the force, as his back arches and his shoulders flex hard against the sheets; it’s not until Shizuo’s drawing his fingers back that he can find his voice again.  “Are you trying to tell me all that chasing me around school was you desperate for a fuck?”

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo growls, and shoves so hard into Izaya that the other slides backwards by a half-inch, that Izaya has to close his mouth hard on the groan that wants to spill up his throat. Shizuo glances up at him, his scowl still firmly in place at his lips; and then he looks back down, his expression softening as he draws his touch back. “It’s not like I was thinking about fucking you.” He touches another finger to Izaya’s entrance, the texture of his skin catching and pulling against the other; Izaya shudders an exhale, and Shizuo’s finger slides into him, the stretch of it pushing to the edge of an ache low in Izaya’s stomach. “I just thought about you.” He twists his hand, working his fingers in deeper, and Izaya has to pant to find air for his lungs against the strain of Shizuo’s touch inside him. “I thought about you all the time, back then.”

“Only then?” Izaya asks.

He means it as a joke. It’s easy to offer the taunt, simple to couple it with a smirk as if he knows, as if there’s any reason for Shizuo to think of him over the course of his daily life now except when Izaya inserts himself directly into the other’s existence. But Shizuo lifts his head, his eyes meet Izaya’s, and Izaya can feel the jolt of recognition run all through him even before Shizuo speaks.

“No,” he says, and his fingers drive forward, his touch pressing hard enough to force the air from Izaya’s lungs in a startled exhale. “Not just then.”

“Oh,” Izaya says, and that’s all he can find to offer for several long minutes. His thoughts are spinning, working rapidly over the implications of Shizuo’s statement, and Shizuo doesn’t say anything to interrupt Izaya’s thoughts. He ducks his head instead, dropping his chin to cast his face into shadow as he works Izaya open, and Izaya might be able to muster some self-consciousness at the weight of Shizuo’s gaze on him if he weren’t so tangled by the suggestion of the other’s words. _How long_ , he wants to ask, _how long have you…_ but the answer is in the shadows of Shizuo’s gaze on him, in the unhesitating thrust of the other’s fingers into him, and Izaya’s skin is prickling with epiphany and intoxication and over it all, high and bright and crystalline, desire so strong he can feel it like a weight against his chest.

“Enough,” he says, pushing the word loose from his throat with enough force that it goes ragged at the edges with that strange burden of emotion in his chest. He untangles his fingers from the sheets to reach out and shove back against the inside of Shizuo’s wrist where the other is still working into him. “Come on, Shizu-chan, there’s no need to keep me waiting any more.”

“I’ve only used two fingers,” Shizuo says. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

Izaya rolls his eyes. “How big do you think your dick is, Shizu-chan?” He tips his knee open wider, slides his foot an inch across the bed. “I’ll be fine.”

Shizuo frowns skeptically at him. “I’m not trying to brag--”

“So don’t.” Izaya shoves at Shizuo’s hand again, harder this time to urge the other’s fingers back and out of him. He can feel the emptiness inside him, a dull ache of want that pools low in his stomach, but it just makes his heart speed faster on anticipation of the pressure to come. “Stop stalling and fuck me already.”

Shizuo scowls. “Fine,” he says, with some trace of his usual irritation on the word, and rocks back over his heels as he reaches for his clothes. He pauses to strip his sweater off first, and Izaya is opening his mouth to offer some comment about a much-needed loss; but then Shizuo is shaking his hair back from his face, and turning to toss the sweater over the end of the bed, and Izaya’s voice dies in his throat at the pull of muscle along Shizuo’s shoulder, at the flex of lean strength in the flat of the other’s chest. His face goes hot, his breathing catches, and when Shizuo turns back to look at him Izaya has to busy himself with pushing up off the bed so he can shed what of his own clothing is still covering his body. It gives him a moment to hide his face, at least, and a much-needed distraction for his thoughts; and then he’s pushing his clothes over the edge of the bed, and looking back to Shizuo just as the other pushes his jeans off his hips.

He wasn’t bragging. Izaya was ready to offer mockery, ready to laugh in the face of Shizuo’s adolescent pride about the size of his cock; but he can’t, can’t find any words at all for the teasing he intended to give by way of response. Shizuo’s wider than two fingers, maybe wider than three even at the base, and the head more so, swollen dark and full with arousal as it is. The whole length of him is several inches long; Izaya thinks Shizuo might cover the whole width of his handspan, if he did a comparative study. Izaya’s never seen anyone so well-endowed outside of porn, and even then he’s sure Shizuo would be particularly memorable. There’s a shudder that runs down his spine, a moment of awareness that he may have asked for more than he can take after all; and immediately on its heels, following so close that it’s almost the same reaction, a rush of heat flaring through his entire body, that ache inside him all but thrumming with its need to be filled.

“See, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, attempting casual disregard while his heart pounds to heat in his chest. “You’re nothing all that special. And after you got my hopes up, too.” Shizuo looks up at him, his expression creasing on the shadow of frustration, and Izaya casts himself back over the sheets with a gusty sigh he hopes carries something like the illusion of disappointment instead of the straining heat he can feel building in his shoulders and aching against the curve of his cock. “Let’s hope you’re as much of a natural when it comes to sex as you are when it comes to kissing.”

Izaya’s expecting to get a frown for his trouble, maybe even a growled insult if he managed to strike a nerve. Shizuo does neither. He stares at Izaya instead, his hands stalled halfway to working his jeans off his legs; and then he ducks his head to return his focus to what he’s doing, but not quickly enough to hide the way his mouth curves up instead of down, the way his expression goes soft with warmth instead of brittle with anger.

“What are you doing?” Izaya demands, his chest tightening on confusion. “Why are you _smiling_?”

Shizuo shakes his head, kicking his legs free of his jeans and tossing them to join his sweater over the end of the bed. “What you said,” he says, leaning in over Izaya lying across the sheets. “That I’m a natural at kissing.”

“I didn’t--” Izaya starts, and then his heat-slowed thoughts catch up to the words he just gave, and he closes his mouth on his sentence as his cheeks go warm with self-consciousness. Shizuo is grinning at him, his whole expression gone sunshine-bright the way it sometimes does just before a fight, and Izaya can’t find clarity for his thoughts with the diamond brilliance of Shizuo’s smile for them to break over.

“Well, of _course_ ,” he manages finally, retreating back over the distance of denial so he can get his mental footing back under him. “You got me into bed with you, after all, you must be at least _minimally_ talented.”

“High praise,” Shizuo says, but he’s still smiling, and the words come out closer to a laugh than to the growl of irritation Izaya half-expected. He tips in closer, reaching out to brace a hand over Izaya’s shoulder so he can lean down over the gap between them, and Izaya is turning his head up without thinking, wholly unable to hold back the impulse to reach up for the weight of Shizuo’s mouth on his again. Shizuo’s lips catch his, pressing the damp heat of friction over Izaya’s, and Izaya is just starting to open his mouth into an invitation for more when Shizuo tips his hips forward, and the heat of his cock bumping against Izaya’s body knocks any other consideration clear out of the other’s mind.

“ _Oh_ ,” Izaya says, blurting the sound against the weight of Shizuo’s mouth against his. His whole body tenses into a moment of almost-panic, he can feel himself clench hard in a reflexive attempt to protect himself from the intrusion of the contact against him. “ _Fuck_.”

Shizuo draws back immediately, pulling away from the slow exploration he’s making of Izaya’s mouth to frown down at the other. “Are you okay?” he asks. Concern sits soft on his features; Izaya’s never seen him look so worried before, or at least not while looking at him. “Do you need--”

“I’m fine,” Izaya says, knowing it’s a lie, knowing that he doesn’t care, that he can’t stand to have Shizuo pull away when they’re this close. “What are you waiting for, an invitation?” He slides his legs wide, tips his knees as far open as they will go; when he ducks his chin down he can feel the familiar outline of mockery curving his lips into a smirk, can feel the brittle edge of laughter settling over his expression to disguise the thrumming nerves he can feel running up the whole of his spine. “I’ll do better and give you an order. Put your dick in me, Shizu-chan.”

“Jesus,” Shizuo groans, but it’s almost a laugh, the sound is giving way at the edges into disbelieving amusement before he ducks his head and reaches down to brace his free hand at the base of his cock. His hair is falling pale over his forehead, the strands tangling on themselves to make a shadow over his features; with his head tipped down so he can watch what he’s doing Izaya doesn’t need to worry about composing his expression into the illusion of teasing, doesn’t have to think about anything at all other than filling his lungs with oxygen and letting it out, working through the basic rhythm of existence with as much calm as he can bring to it. The head of Shizuo’s cock presses against him, the heat-swollen slick of it urging his body to open to the pressure, and Izaya lets a breath out and relaxes as much as he can, lets his whole body go slack and heavy over the sheets in preemptive surrender. There’s force bearing against him, he can feel himself opening wider to the heat, but everything he has to give Shizuo takes, and demands more, and Izaya can feel the stretch rising up his spine, can feel the dull ache of protest starting under his skin as Shizuo keeps pushing against the strain of his body.

“God,” Shizuo says, his voice taut and thrumming in his chest. “You’re too tight, I can’t--”

“You can,” Izaya snaps. “Just push harder, Shizu-chan, you’ll make it.” Shizuo rocks forward in an attempt at obedience, the force jolting through Izaya’s body; but strain wins out over strength, and all he succeeds in doing is sliding Izaya backwards over the sheets by an inch. Izaya hisses frustration and lifts a hand over his head to brace against the wall at the head of the bed as he locks his elbow in an attempt to hold himself still. “ _Harder_.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo gasps, and he lets himself go to grab at Izaya’s hip instead, his fingers closing hard against the edge of bone under skin. His hold is too tight, Izaya can feel the bruising force of it ache under his skin at once, but that’s a trivial concern, because Shizuo is thrusting forward again, and this time when Izaya slides he runs up against that unbreakable hold at his hip. For a moment everything holds taut, Izaya’s body and Shizuo’s grip and the force of Shizuo pushing against him; and then Izaya can feel himself giving way, can feel the reflexive tension of his body loosening to the demands of Shizuo’s strength, and Shizuo slides forward and into him. There’s a moment of impossible pressure as Shizuo pushes forward, a stretch so great Izaya feels sure his body will give way to it; and then the head of Shizuo’s cock slips inside him, and Izaya tenses involuntarily around the breadth of the other’s shaft, the width of it still too-much but easier to handle with the strain of the head fully inside him.

“ _God_ ,” Shizuo groans, his head still tipped down so Izaya couldn’t see his face even if his own vision weren’t overwritten by blinding white. “You’re so fucking _tight_.” Izaya tries to give some kind of voice to a reply, unsure what he’s trying to say and unable to think through the noise when he can feel his heartbeat pounding against Shizuo inside him; but the whimpering heat that spills from his lips is apparently encouragement enough, if Shizuo hears it at all, because he’s bracing his fingers harder at Izaya’s hip and rocking forward to slide himself deeper by inches into the trembling strain of the other around him. Izaya can feel the head of Shizuo’s cock stretching him open as it moves, can feel his body struggling to bear the pressure as Shizuo moves into him, and even as his spine arches and his fingers clench into his palms some greedy recklessness in him aches for more, farther, deeper, wants to take all of Shizuo inside him at once without any consideration for the consequences.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, his voice giving way at the fringes to uncertainty; his fingers tense at Izaya’s hip, his hold shifting as his forward movement eases and stills. It doesn’t make much of a difference; there’s almost no relief at all in the lack of action, not when Izaya’s body is already struggling to take what inches of Shizuo he already has within him. “Are you okay?”

Izaya has to try twice before he can speak. “Fine,” he manages, but it quivers in his throat, he can taste the complete lack of sincerity on his voice as the word slides off his tongue. Shizuo’s frowning at him; Izaya can barely keep his attention focused on the other’s face, can’t even make a guess at what his own expression looks like. “Keep going.”

“It’s too much,” Shizuo growls. “I’m hurting you.”

Izaya shakes his head, rejecting the first premise since he can’t honestly dismiss the second. He can feel the ache of too-much radiating through his whole body, trembling against the inside of his thighs and up the line of his throat until he can’t trust his voice; but his heart is pounding with the same wild urgency that he always feels, with Shizuo, as if it might be worth stepping off a ledge just to see the expression on the other’s face as he falls. “Keep going,” he repeats, and lets his bracing hand at the wall go so he can reach up for Shizuo’s shoulder instead, so he can catch his fingers into a fist of the other’s hair and pull against the strands. Shizuo’s hair is soft against his skin; Izaya drags hard against it, until Shizuo hisses with the pain. “Keep _going_.”

“Fuck,” Shizuo says again, his expression falling into the shadows of a scowl; but his hand is shifting, his hold sliding with the promise of action, and when he moves it’s to thrust forward again, to force himself farther into the space of Izaya’s body. Izaya jerks with the movement, his spine arching helplessly against the friction as the head of Shizuo’s cock presses hard against his prostate for a moment, but Shizuo doesn’t stop, he’s still sliding deeper, Izaya’s never felt anything so far inside him. He can’t catch his breath, it feels like Shizuo’s going to keep going forever; and then there’s heat pressing against his thighs, a huff of sound from Shizuo as his hips come flush with Izaya’s, and “There,” rough with irritation but softening into the beginning of concern even as the word falls to audibility. “Are you alright?”

“Move,” Izaya says, because it’s the only word he can find from the white-out blur that has overtaken his thoughts as much as his vision. “Keep going.”

Shizuo’s exhale is loud with frustration. “You’re _shaking_ , Izaya, you’re not--”

“ _Move_ ,” Izaya tells him, all but shouting the word into a demand. “Damn you, Shizu-chan, just _fuck_ me.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo snaps, the word vicious with frustrated concern, and he’s moving, his body flexing through the instinctive action that Izaya has always drawn with the edge of a blade, before. He draws back by inches, the weight of his cock pulling away to leave Izaya gasping a breath of relief at the easing inside him; and then his hips come forward, his cock driving forward to thrust back into the other, and it’s as the head drags hard against his inner walls that Izaya spasms over the bed, choking off a sharp note of heat as his cock twitches and spurts come halfway up his chest. The pleasure is pain-bright, blinding Izaya’s vision and stealing all the intention from his movement; he can’t help the way his hand drags at Shizuo’s hair any more than he can help the sharp backwards angle of his head or the way his spine arches him sharply upward, even that minimal shift working around the pressure of Shizuo inside him. His whole body is clenching tight in reflexive ripples of pleasure, the shock of them enough to pull unthought, helpless moans from Izaya’s throat, and still there’s that hand at his hip, and that pressure inside him, Shizuo bracing him still against the force of his orgasm as Izaya comes around the breadth of the other’s cock in him.

“ _God_ ,” Shizuo says, his voice dropping off a cliffface into heat like Izaya’s only ever imagined before, into a resonance that Izaya can feel run down the arch of his spine as if to pull him through another shuddering aftershock of sensation. “ _Izaya_.”

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, forming the words on his lips and uncertain if he’s really offering sound to go with them. “Move.”

Shizuo takes a breath that Izaya can hear more than his dizzy vision can parse it. “You--”

“Move,” Izaya says again, blinking hard in an attempt to clear his sight back to something semi-coherent again. He can see clearly enough, that’s not the problem; it’s that his comprehension is stammering over itself, is struggling to make sense out of the individual details he’s parsing: the damp of moisture caught at parted lips, the feathery shadow of light falling on dark lashes, the tangle made of individual strands of yellow-gold hair. “Keep going.”

“God,” Shizuo says, the word straining in his throat. His lips press together; Izaya can hear the sound of him swallowing. “ _God_.” And he slides back again, pulling free of Izaya by inches, and he moves.

It’s too much. Every forward stroke is too much, _was_ too much even on the first, even when Shizuo was moving slow and Izaya was clinging to his attempt at relaxation with all his desperate attention. With his nerves shimmering with the aftershocks of his sudden orgasm even minimal action is enough to steal his breathing, enough to arch his toes to flex hard against the sheets under him. But Shizuo takes Izaya at his word, and he keeps going, even when Izaya’s breathing starts to go ragged, even when Izaya starts to shake in helpless tremors brought on by the endless strain climbing up his spine. He keeps jerking with every forward thrust Shizuo takes, his body seizing tight against the intrusion of the other’s cock pushing into him; he can’t tell if it’s aftershocks from that first violent orgasm or smaller successive ones, his body quivering with the rippling waves of pleasure even if he’s too drained to muster any further spills of liquid over his stomach. His cock is still hard, twitching desperately with every one of those convulsive jolts of sensation that come with Shizuo fucking into him, and somewhere, distantly, Izaya realizes he can hear himself gasping for air, realizes that he’s spilling Shizuo’s name over his lips even though he can’t hear the sounds properly for how hard his heart is pounding in his chest. Shizuo is panting over him, Izaya can feel the huff of the other’s breath hot over his bare shoulder; when Izaya’s fingers clench it’s soft hair they close on, his arms pulling Shizuo down closer to him with force as insistent as it is involuntary. That hand is still at his hip, Shizuo’s fingertips are still pressing the weight of bruises into his skin, and Izaya can feel that like a single bright point of clarity amidst the overwhelming rush of sensation trying to sweep him away with every thrust Shizuo takes into him. His legs are cramping, his feet arching and his toes curling; his fingers are starting to tingle, the very tips of them prickling with the first beginning of numbness as all the blood in his body tries to fit into the straining heat of his cock between his stomach and Shizuo’s. There’s pressure rising up his spine, impossibly high, rising further even than Shizuo is sliding into him, and against his shoulder Shizuo is gasping, choking over his breathing with the ragged edges of inevitability forming at his lips.

“Izaya,” he says, his voice knocked open on heat and effort together, until Izaya can hear the sweat-slick effort moving the other’s body as clearly as he can feel it against him. “ _God_ , you feel…” and coherency flickers into a groan, into a drawn-out moan of heat like a rising tide of promise at Shizuo’s lips. Izaya can’t feel Shizuo’s hair against the numb grip of his fingers, can barely pay attention to the helpless trembling running through the too-much strain of his legs. His spine is curving again, his whole body arching like a bow under the grip of Shizuo’s hold at his hip; his skin presses flush against Shizuo’s, the friction of the other’s movement drags damp over Izaya’s chest.

“Oh,” he says, the sound clear and pristine and involuntary. “Shizu-chan” and there’s a pull inside him, the wide head of Shizuo’s cock bearing down against his prostate, and Izaya comes again, his voice breaking over a wail as his cock pulses through waves of dry heat. Shizuo groans at his shoulder, draws back to thrust hard into the tremor of Izaya’s orgasm, and deep inside him Izaya can feel a spurt of heat, can feel the wet of Shizuo coming into him in waves drawn long by Izaya’s own convulsive clenching around the resistance of the other’s length. Izaya’s sobbing through the rush of his breathing, his exhales shaking themselves apart into the emotional relief for too-much physical sensation; but at his shoulder Shizuo is silent, even his inhales gone inaudible as his body tremors through the force of his orgasm.

Izaya doesn’t know how long they stay like that. Eventually he manages to ease the tension from his legs, at least enough to let his knees fall open again instead of pressing close to Shizuo’s hips like he’s trying to hold the other against him. His fingers, too, come back to themselves, feeling first and then control more slowly, until he’s confident enough in his own action to unwind the grip he has on Shizuo’s hair and let one hand fall heavy to his side. The other he keeps where it is, weighting at the back of Shizuo’s neck as if to hold the other there, as if his strength would ever be enough to keep Shizuo where the other doesn’t want to be. But Shizuo doesn’t move for a long time, doesn’t lift his head from Izaya’s shoulder for what must be minutes of peace, and it’s only when Izaya finally angles one knee a little wider for a more comfortable position that he stirs himself to motion again.

“Sorry,” he says, the word muffled at Izaya’s shoulder before he pushes himself up off the support of the other’s chest to blink down at Izaya’s face. His expression is softer than Izaya has ever seen it, as if all the irritated stress that Izaya is usually so careful to cultivate has worked itself into languid calm between the shift of their bodies. Then again, Izaya has no idea at all what his own expression looks like. “Are you okay?”

Izaya licks his lips. They ache to the touch, like the pressure of Shizuo’s mouth is still lingering against the skin like an unseen bruise. “I’m sticky.”

Shizuo snorts the beginning of a laugh. It’s strange to hear it sound so unforced. “I bet,” he says, and looks down to where his hips are still pressed close against Izaya’s. “I’m going to pull out.”

“Go slow,” is all Izaya says before he lifts an arm to cover his face while Shizuo eases out of him. Some of the heat is fading from the other’s body, his cock softening from the full strain of arousal, but the action still drags over hypersensitive nerve endings as he slides back and free of Izaya’s body. Izaya can’t help the hiss of reaction that spills past his teeth as the pressure pulls across his prostate, can’t ease away from the strain that arches his back as the extra breadth of the head forces his entrance wide around it for a moment; and then Shizuo is out of him, and Izaya can feel the relief and the loss of it in equal parts as his body tightens reflexively as if in pursuit of the now-absent pressure. He shudders through an exhale, feels the whole of his body going limp with exhaustion over the soft of Shizuo’s sheets under him, and from between the angle of his knees Shizuo sighs the heavy warmth of satisfaction.

“That was,” he says, the phrase rumbling so low it doesn’t even sound unfinished, as if it can somehow carry a whole array of meaning without needing the assistance of language. From the way Izaya can feel the syllables purring under his skin, it doesn’t. Shizuo shifts at the bed, rocking himself back over his heels while Izaya keeps his face cast in the shadow of his arm; he can just see the other’s movement in his periphery, the shift of sweat-damp shoulders and heat-flushed skin as Shizuo settles himself to sit heavy on the mattress under them.

There’s a pause, a moment of quiet more peaceful than strained; and then Izaya clears his throat and says, “You don’t happen to have a shower, do you?” as if there’s any chance his legs are in a condition to support his weight as yet.

“Yeah.” Shizuo sounds idle, like they’re talking about hypotheticals instead of immediate events; which is fair enough, Izaya thinks, judging from the low thrum of overexertion he can still feel against the inside of his thighs. “Help yourself.” The invitation is offhand too, careless with disinterest; Izaya can see Shizuo’s head turned towards him from under the cover of his arm, though he doesn’t lift the barrier so he can see what of him Shizuo is seeing. There’s a prickle of imagined friction over his skin, the uncertainty of self-consciousness combining with the almost-pleasant tingle of having and holding someone else’s attention; and then real friction, the weight of a touch landing at his hip, and Izaya sucks in a startled breath and lifts his arm to look down as Shizuo’s fingers skim against the edge of bone under thin skin, dragging sideways to trace against the dip of his navel and up across the flutter of tension in his stomach to the spatter of liquid drying sticky against his skin.

“You have really pale skin,” Shizuo says. He’s looking at the weight of his fingers, not at Izaya’s face; there’s no judgment in his expression, none of the strain Izaya is so used to seeing there. His eyes look softer like this, with the dark edge of anger stripped away to leave just soft-sweet brown behind the shadow of his lashes. “I never noticed before.”

“Yes,” Izaya says, attempting something akin to sarcasm and not sure it come out as anything other than trembling warmth. “I’m glad you--” and Shizuo’s fingers slip sideways, dragging over the curve of Izaya’s lowest rib, and Izaya’s words cut off into a startled gasp of reflexive response. He flails a hand out to seize at Shizuo’s wrist and wrench it away from his skin, twisting in sharply onto his side to curl protectively around himself; it’s not until he’s panting through the sudden violence of adrenaline that he realizes how much of a giveaway his instant reaction was.

There’s a pause; then “Izaya-kun,” Shizuo says, and Izaya can feel his face heat with a blush even if he’s not looking up to see the amusement starting at Shizuo’s lips and underlying his words. “Are you _ticklish_?”

“No,” Izaya says immediately. “You’ve spent the last several years vowing to murder me, Shizu-chan, forgive me if I’m unwilling to trust the safety of my body to your hands.”

“You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago,” Shizuo says. Izaya’s hold at his wrist is loosening, and Shizuo could certainly have shaken it off anyway; but he doesn’t drag himself free, doesn’t even pull against the loop of Izaya’s fingers. “I can’t believe that you’ve been ticklish all this time.”

“Shut up,” Izaya tells him, looking up to scowl the most aggression he can muster in Shizuo’s direction. Unfortunately it’s not much in the first place, and worse it flickers and fades the moment he sees the way Shizuo is looking at him, with his eyes bright on laughter and his mouth tugging at the curve of a smile. “Just. Shut _up_ , Shizu-chan.” Shizuo is still looking at him like that, like he’s seeing Izaya for the first time, like he _likes_ what he sees, as if all those walls Izaya has spent so many years maintaining were unnecessary after all; it makes Izaya’s stomach swoop, makes his chest ache with something so sharp and bright it’s near pain, and he turns his head away, just for a moment, just so he can look at something other than Shizuo looking at him. There’s a digital clock alongside the bed, the display turned aside so Izaya can only see the first two digits of the time; he stares at it for a moment, his attention catching against the soft green of the glow, and then he huffs an exhale, and feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Shizu-chan.”

“What?” Shizuo says, sounding a little bit uncertain and only mostly overwarm with post-coital bliss.

Izaya takes a breath and turns his head to look back up at the other. “Merry Christmas.”

Shizuo’s forehead creases for a moment of confusion. Izaya can see realization break over his expression like dawn, can see the momentary flicker of his gaze jumping to the clock display and back again. That softness is gone along with his initial irritation; there’s just open surprise, now, his expression knocked open on recognition of the shift in date that must have come while they were pressed together on the bed.

“Oh,” he says; and then, as his mouth curves up at the corner, as he shifts his hand against Izaya’s hold, “Yeah. Merry Christmas, Izaya-kun.” Izaya’s heart flutters as Shizuo slots their fingers together, as Shizuo tips in closer in time with his smile spreading wider; but he doesn’t pull his hand away, and he doesn’t flinch back, and when he shuts his eyes he’s rewarded by the deliberate press of Shizuo’s mouth to his.

He’s going to have to revise his opinion on this holiday, Izaya thinks as Shizuo purrs low against his mouth and reaches up to slide his fingers into the other’s hair. Right now, it looks like Christmas is going to be the best day of his year.


End file.
